“What’s that?” she asked warily.
“You’re not married, are you?”
His words were a punch to her heart. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might assume she was married, but it made sense. With his history and her desire to hide her identity, it was a logical conclusion. As much as he acted like he’d moved on, it was clear he still carried the scars from his divorce.
“No, I’m not married,” she said softly. “I’m not in a relationship of any kind, I promise.”
Damian raked a hand through his dark hair and nodded. “I gave something away, didn’t I?”
“Just that you’re a guy with morals.” She sipped her drink. “But I won’t push you for more information.”
* * *
Damian leaned back against the plush seat, toying with the stem of the champagne flute. Tonight he’d crossed a line that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—at least for a little while—and he wasn’t the sort of guy who changed his mind once he’d made a decision.
He was supposed to be off women. Off sex and head games and all that fuckery, because he needed to concentrate on his work. After finding Jenny and Ben together, he’d screwed his way into oblivion for twelve months straight, and it had done nothing but cause him grief. It hadn’t filled the gaping chasm in his chest, nor had it quietened the critical voices in his head. So he’d become very selective about who he let into his bed. And even more selective about who he let into his life.
But then this redhead had bowled him over and flipped everything on its head. Back on the balcony, he’d been powerless to resist her demands for more—and she wouldn’t even tell him her name.
“I, uh... I don’t do this normally,” the redhead said.
“Have a one-night stand?”
“At least not without dinner first.” She drained the rest of her champagne. Looking for some Dutch courage, perhaps? He was tempted to remind her that he’d already brought her to orgasm once, so what was there to be nervous about? But he kept his mouth shut.
“We had canapés, so that’s dinner covered.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t seductive or sexy. She seemed...shy. “You know what I mean.”
“No judgement,” he said, finishing his drink.
Right about now he would have preferred a scotch—two fingers, neat—but this would do. Really, he didn’t want anything to dull this experience. Something told him that the redhead was special. That this whole crazy thing wasn’t going to be regular “good in the moment, but forget it the morning after” sex.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said. “I want this, you want this. All we need to do is settle on a location.”
“How about right here?” she whispered. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her mask, the pretty pink extending down her neck and colouring her chest.
“In the car?”
“Why not? As you said, your ticket paid for it.”
He stifled a groan as she crossed her legs, the long slit falling open to reveal miles of creamy, pale skin. Knowing she wore nothing but a scrap of lace beneath had made him impossibly hard. He wanted her in his lap, legs spread, moaning his name. Now.
Damian dropped the privacy partition and instructed the driver to circle the botanical garden a few times. With Saturday-night traffic, that should give him ample time to lose himself inside this beautiful, mysterious woman.
Her eyes grew dark, the muscles in her neck working as she swallowed. The low light danced across her skin, highlighting her smooth paleness where the dress exposed the sensual curve of her breasts. Light caught on the shiny silver beads, glimmering like stardust.
His cock hardened even more, straining against the wool of his tuxedo pants. Adjusting himself, he counted to ten in his head. His self-imposed dry spell would work against him if he didn’t keep his urges in check. If he was doing this, he wasn’t going to blow it in the first five minutes.
“You should know before we go any farther that I’m not going to tell you my name,” she said. Her fingertip traced the beading on her thigh. “Is that a problem?”
He clamped his teeth down on his lip and imagined sinking them into her, leaving a perfect indentation on her inner thigh. The idea of such a personal mark on her skin filled him with excitement. How would she react to the sharp sting mixed with all the pleasure he planned to give her?
“It’s not how I usually do things,” he said, holding out a hand. “But no, it’s not a problem.”
She slid across the limousine’s seat until her thigh touched his, her shallow breathing music to his ears. He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her into his lap so that she straddled him, the slit in her dress riding up even higher to expose the tops of her perfect, creamy thighs.
His cock ached to be inside her. Cupping her head with his hands, he smoothed up her jawline to thread his fingers into her hair. His thumb traced the shell of her ear as he stared at her mouth, watching her lips as her breath stuttered in and out. She sank lower, pressing the heat of her sex against his straining erection, sending sparks of need shooting through him.
“Stop moving,” he commanded, whispering into her ear.
The scent of peaches and vanilla invaded his nostrils and filtered through him like a drug. She stilled in his arms and he brought his lips to her jaw, kissing along the gentle angle until he reached her lips. They were plump and juicy.
Slowly, slowly.
Hovering above her lips, he waited to see if she would break. Not a muscle twitched as she waited, compliant. He pressed his mouth to hers, coaxing her lips open so he could taste her fully.
Knotting her hair in his fists, he held her head in place while he devoured her. She moaned into him, the muffled sound awakening every nerve ending in his body. He was going to savour this.
IF KISSING WERE an Olympic sport, Damian would take home gold, silver and bronze. No contest. The man had a mastery over his tongue that was borderline indecent.
He tugged her hair, moving her head into place so he could take what he wanted. How he wanted it. This kind of kiss should have been accompanied by a crash of cymbals or the roar of the ocean. It could have its own soundtrack. But in reality, she was only aware of the slow sizzle of her nerves frying as she slowly melted into him.
“God,” he moaned into her ear as he sucked her lobe into his mouth.
Hot breath warmed her skin. He enveloped her, supported her. Held her in place. Only her mouth moved as she kissed him back, her body his to manoeuvre as he saw fit.
He released her hair, smoothing his hands down her neck, his thumb tracing the little hollow at the base of her throat. She could feel her pulse fluttering wildly, and she sucked in a breath, relishing the power he had over her. She willed him to fuck her right here, to tear her underwear to one side like he had on the balcony and release the tension bundled up tight between her legs.
But it seemed Damian had other ideas. Slower ideas. He leaned forward to suck on the skin at her décolletage, his tongue tracing the bones pressing against her skin before he moved down. Safe in his arms, she leaned back to give him the access he needed. He tugged the dress over, revealing her breast and drawing a nipple into his mouth.
He sucked, teeth scraping over the sensitive peak. Was it possible to come from only this? Lainey often orgasmed by her own hands rather than with a partner. The men she slept with thought breasts were more for jiggling and bouncing, but Damian treated hers like the centre of his world. He worshiped them.
She